


Cat in the Cradle

by kittydesade



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittydesade/pseuds/kittydesade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meetings and partings. Because I will never ever let go of this theory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cat in the Cradle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kikibug13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikibug13/gifts).



> Happy birthday!

He never did get up the energy or the courage to go and see.

The last day of his visit he stopped by Granny's on his way out of town, getting a box of pastries to go. Small box, it'd strap well to the back of his bike and make for good road food along the way. The waitress in the pretty outfit with too much makeup and too-tall heels gave him a funny look, probably because no one left Storybrooke. Or came into it, for that matter. Strangers just didn't happen in this town.

He'd been here half a dozen times and no one had noticed. Because the one person who would remember, well, two people. But he'd carefully avoided everyone who would notice. Stayed away from those who gossiped. Made sure his passign wouldn't leave any ripples, both out of necessity and because he didn't want to deal with the conversation. In the outside world, time passed. Inside Storybrooke was like being wrapped in a coccoon of warm blankets, everything muffled and nothing to hurt you, ever. He hated it.

But hate was a strong word, wasn't it? Apt, though. Storybrooke was a frozen reminder of how everything had changed, and everything he didn't have anymore.

"Sheriff Swan," he bowed, tipping an imaginary hat as he passed her through the doorway. "In for your morning coffee, I presume?"

"You c--" she started, then looked over his shoulder. "You have a safe trip out," was all she said, the smile fading from her face as she headed inside. 

He had about fifteen seconds to assume it was something he'd said before he heard the soft tap between the footsteps behind him. Back in the day it had been a softer thump on hard-packed dirt. Thump-drag, thump drag. He didn't want to turn around. He _really_ didn't want to do this out in the street.

Box of pastries on the seat of the bike. Two danish, two turnovers, he remembered, although he didn't know why he was thinking of that right now. Or why he was thinking about when he'd have to gas up next as he popped the right toe of his boot and turned on his heel to face whatever came next. 

There was some satisfaction in seeing that neither of them were prepared for this. The widening of the eyes and the way his face slackened and then perked up again to look, just for a moment, like he had all those years ago. When they'd both been younger and he was a child still with complete and utter faith in his papa. And now that man was slighter and more frail, grayer at the temples and he didn't even recognize him from the eyes like obsidian chips. 

It took him a false start or two to say something, and when he could it came out in a sand-papery whisper. "I didn't know you were in town." They both swallowed at the same time, the same nervous too-rapid blinking.

"Just leaving," he said, before he realized how angry that sounded. How angry he was, and he unclenched his hands and made them hang loose at his sides. 

"Good..." Too quick. With a jerky bobbing motion of the head that wasn't a nod, both hands coming forward to fold over the handle of his cane and lean heavily on it the way he'd done on his old stick.

From a stout stick to a gold-tipped, polished cane. It was a hell of a distance. "You look..." He didn't know what to say. "In good health." That was about the best of it. You look like a starving, half-mad wolf. You look tired. 

The silence stretched to the point where it became obvious that neither of them knew what to say. He wasn't about to stay, and he didn't think an invitation would be forthcoming. Too much blood under the bridge for that. He shifted his weight and watched narrow fingers dance on the hilt of the cane as a response and clamped his jaw shut on the sudden tirade that wanted to spout forth. All about how it was _his_ fault that he now looked at everything in this coldly analytical way. How he couldn't stop seeing things, patterns and ways in and buttons to push, everywhere. They both looked away, anyway, so there went that opportunity. And there it was again.

He found he'd laced his fingers together and clenched his hands, pressing his knuckle into his forehead. "Are you almost done here?" he asked. Pleaded, maybe, only he was too tired to plead with his father anymore. With the man his father had become. He didn't know him, they barely spoke. Hadn't spoken in over twenty-eight years. 

"Almost. It's almost over." It was the closest he sounded to the old sheep farmer in decades. Gentle and quiet, placid. Not at peace nor calm, but trying to be soothing as best he could. "Just a little while longer."

He didn't lower his hands. "It better be. This was old before it started." 

Some kind of exhalation followed that half-statement half-threat. He didn't have much to threaten with, but he could still use this stranglehold they had on each other. No apologies forthcoming, either. He was sick of apologies, they'd never meant anything to begin with. 

They might now, with all the corrupting influence supposedly gone. He wished he hadn't thought of that.

Infuriated and exhausted by the three or four minutes' worth of non-conversation, he turned back to the bike and grabbed the box of pastries, jamming it into a saddlebag on its side, on top of his spare pair of jeans. Hell with it, smashed pastries tasted just as good as whole ones. Another tap and soft step and a gray and cream-colored blur as someone else came out of the diner and hurried past, sensing a scene they didn't want to be a part of. He made sure all his buckles were tight and jammed his helmet on his head before the older man could do more than open his mouth.

"I'll see you later, yeah, son?" The naked hope hurt more than anything they'd said or done -- or hadn't said or done -- all morning. Bae kicked the bike to life and roared down the street and out of town before the old man could call him back.


End file.
